On the day when 7 sisters blazed
and their blue tears fell on the grass-less plains
onto which the God king came,
on the 1st of May
with 24 sons and 24 daughters
out from the shadow waters
to find 9 rivers and 3 lakes
and lands they'd stretch and shape,
was the day my soul was born
early in the Beltane morn.
The thirsty spear sleeps in poppy fields
Arianrod spins her silver wheels.
Our dreams,
a footless goblin steals
teasing us with what we feel.
Through the eye of Balor I clearly see our illness
and even this
cold steel fist
cannot brake the silent stillness.
The epidemic of our race,
the sweet but bitter taste.
Clouds rain down blood and fire
on the child whom 2 men sired.
On the floor
a limp, dead whore
who will never meet the minotaur,
the monster that she gave life for
to live alone forever more.
The ancient tree
rooted to the seas
reaching out to you and me.
Teach me what you know times 3
let me be as you are
free.
Sky clad and wild,
crazy as a child,
moonlight excites my beating heart
as I walk the devils mile.
The gods they grin and smile
as I struggle with my trials,
double checking my sun dial
as the days grow dark and vile.
Hounds yelp out from tops of mountains
gods fornicate in crystal fountains.
Kings bathe in war
and blood soaks the holy shores.
Heroes die from their wounds
and pass on through the doors,
to lands of plenty and summer
where druid hands hold sacred numbers
and the dragons wings fly you off
to Tir Ni Nogs sweet slumbers.
Me, I lumber awkwardly
on the outskirts of society.
Everything I've come to be
is spilling from inside of me.
Sins bleed into words,
wolves thin out the herds.
Flowers, prouder than a peacock
dressed in bearskin furs
are blessing our surroundings
and hinting at a cure.
I'm just pushing forward all that I observe
I choose to live with what I know
while others preach what they have heard.
On my hip I carry a double bladed sword
that removes all woes before me
yet always brings me more.
And there beyond the thinning veil
the 7 sisters pray,
while I'm still pondering these riddles
since the 1st of May.
And so on as it goes
this life, it pulls me to and fro
tattoos me head to toe
plants seeds of thought
within my mind to grow.
A bard in the past,
a scribe in the present,
thus I recon January 2nd
when came the blinding shining son
whose heart forever beckons
to give him all
to drop my shield and weapon
and pass on all my wisdom
give protection and direction.
Past the griffins cave
to find the oak
that grows from graves.
Look westward toward the isles
and count the 9 white waves.
There beyond them islands lay
where eternal music plays.
The ancient human melody
that moves us with its way.
MAY YOU BE HONORED THERE AS ROYAL
MAY YOUR FRUIT, IT NEVER SPOIL
MAY YOUR CAULDRONS ALWAYS BOIL
AND FERTILE BE YOUR SOIL.
MAY YOUR BELLY FILL WITH PLENTY,
MAY YOUR GLASS BE NEVER EMPTY,
MAY MAIDENS SHARE THEIR JOY,
WITH HANDS THEY USE SO GENTLY.
WHERE CHILDREN LAUGH AND SCREAM,
AND STAND NAKED IN BETWEEN,
THEIR DREAMS AND ALL THE HEAVENS,
AND ALL THAT NOTHING MEANS.
THAT'S WHERE YOU BELONG MY SON,
FREE FROM ALL THAT WE'VE BECOME.
And now that he is safe and sound
my footprints grace the winter ground
and my flesh i pay with by the pound.
Now I cross the burning lake,
there's knowledge here for me to take.
It burns away the past as I focus on my fate.
2 rainbows cross the sky,
the wind it softly sighs.
I continue on my journey
and the road begins to rise.
My ideals become philosophy
satire and atrocity.
I'm building up velocity
towards things that come to be.
Drudging up the lives I've lived,
all these words I've learned to give.
The way they spill out of my mouth
perhaps I'll wear a bib.
The wars I've seen,
the love's I've lost,
the price I've paid,
at any cost.
I tell the tales to you
and all i ask for in exchange
is that you learn a thing or two.
Then I'm back out on the road,
carrying the load.
Watch it all
again unfold,
as tales untold
are scribed on scrolls,
and barefoot women carry hearts of gold
to the hill of Tara
just past the rambling rose
to meet at circle stones and give their thanks to those
who make the howling wind blow
and the great almighty trees grow.
I do suppose
it's these pleas we need,
to cherish all it means,
to take and give what's already free,
to walk the breeze and ride the seas
and write the rhymes so blessed be.
And blessed be my daughter
bathed in holy water.
Lord let her live in grace
without so much a bother.
Let me hide beyond the tastes
of sage and toad and blotter
until i see the sign of the red southern marauder.
So I might brace myself with shield and spear
put on the helmet
and disappear,
so I might live again,
SO I MIGHT WRITE AGAIN.
Pick my battles now and then.
Share a drink between some friends.
Cast a spell upon my pen,
and tell them how and when
i survived it all
time and time again.
And so as it ends
it starts,
I search for the god of all the arts
who blessed me with a warrior to protect my fragile heart,
and a mother of 9 others who nursed a tongue that stuttered,
thus turned my mouth to daggers atop two legs that staggered
blindly into the next episode,
to chase the fools morning gold.
While I'll always know
that every aspect of my soul
is as smooth and sharp as a diamond,
brilliant and shining,
and never showing all my sides
remaining all the more wise,
I hear the burning souls cry
as they fall out of the sky.
So I search for shortcuts
beyond great Hades eyes,
but its the same old story
time and time again,
the challenges of men
seeing it now as i once saw it then
the cycles continue and it all starts to blend.
One thing's for certain,
I'll never own lace curtains.
My clothes might be shiny
but my pockets are hurtin'.
So I'll stroll through my story
and begin recounting
may it live long as the sea
the wind
and the mountain.
Mike O'Rourke
Born 1/3/78 in Boston, MA. Originally from Charlestown, MA.,
Mike lived most of his life in the neighboring city of Somerville (affectionately referred to as "Slumerville").
Mike is an artist - illustrator, writer, musician, philosopher, free thinker.
"I feel that art is not a skill or sharpened technique as much as it is just a part of nature.
Like gravity, electricity, light, wind, fire, water. Art is a form of energy. It's an element.
It's an extension of the creative consciousness of the Universe that constantly expands and runs through all matter. Some connect easily with the energy, others are not even aware of it. Whether you are a chef, tradesman, hairdresser, stay at home parent, farmer, engineer, etc., the creative force is working through you on all levels.
There is no separation of man and nature. We think, we create." — Mike O'Rourke
